


taking the long way there

by bevvie



Series: i've cherished every kiss (savored every moment) [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Character Study, Dyke Longing, F/F, Families of Choice, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lesbian Ben Hanscom, Lesbian Beverly Marsh, Nightmares, Repression, Trans Female Ben Hanscom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 05:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bevvie/pseuds/bevvie
Summary: “Thanks for kissing me out of it, by the way,” and Christ, it’s socasual,even as Ben is choking in the back of her throat, feeling scraped raw. To hear her affection so unceremoniously spoken of, like it’s not-quite-good, not-quite-bad, is somewhat of a revelation, butBevsaying it brings a strong bout of mortification, so intense it hurts. “Being in it for as long as I was fucked me up pretty bad, you know. I don’t know how much worse it would be if I was in it any longer.”Bev ducks from under Ben’s arm, scampering into the small kitchenette and flicking on the lights. The overhead fluorescents burn into the backs of Ben’s eyes; she flinches, cowering into the crease of her elbow.“It was all I could think of,” Ben admits, and cringes at how rough her voice sounds. “That’s what they do in the movies, right?"--Ben struggles with yearning, the same way she did as a child.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh
Series: i've cherished every kiss (savored every moment) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546441
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	taking the long way there

**Author's Note:**

> i wasnt expecting to turn this into a series, but i suddenly caught a bout of Ben Feelings and figured i had to write something about her. i see a lot of people turn her into a very one-dimensional character and it makes me super sad, because shes gone through a lot of shit and has a story i can deeply relate to, especially with feeling an intense loneliness and isolation. there will probably be more of this, because i want to write about richie and eddie and i really like it when stan is alive.  
the nickname "benny" is courtesy of richietozierhateblog on tumblr, i heard them use it and was obsessed at how cute a nickname it was.  
fic title is from pass the vino by mathien

Benjamin Hanscom has lived a relatively solitary life. Not through any personal fault, of course -- there just always seems to be the looming knowledge of_ something missing _ . The slip of paper in Ben's wallet only confirms that; the elusive name _ Beverly Marsh _ in what is clearly childs' handwriting. Still, to Ben it is a monument of something greater. What about Beverly was so important that she had to be remembered? What impact did she have on Ben's heart that it fluttered even now? Why was she so _ far _?

Ben had sent emails to Beverly's agents, requesting an audience, _ anything _ , suggesting some sort of collaboration, maybe a new look for their runways -- hell, even designing a beach house or something, Ben didn't know, just anything to get Beverly's attention. But there was never any concrete reply, only a quick " _ Apologies, Mrs. Rogan doesn't take private meetings, _" on every email sent. Not even Ben's bigshot name made any headway. No amount of begging could unravel the mystery of the name in her wallet.

She wishes she had tried earlier, before it all. Beverly couldn't possibly have had all her liberties on such lockdown when she was twenty, twenty-five, thirty. Just as Ben had been slow to rise, Beverly had to have taken her time too, growing to a rolling boil before having the lid shut over her.

But Ben had no answer. She had to give up someday, she knew she had to, but the pull, that _ aching _ pull was still grinding against her very soul, making her reach, further, longer, _ waiting _\--

It didn't make sense, was the issue, which is what drove Ben mad. She was a woman of sagacity, of logic and blueprints and measurements. Romance, as pretty a thing it was, took a backseat to practicality, because love at its very core was not logical. There were reasons she relied on her numbers, because her numbers did not lie. Even the faint memory of a poem was crafted with a formula; the steady cadence of a haiku, which required_ rules, _ had a certain steadiness of word and forethought to make the final product sensible -- _ beautiful _. If she was not planned out, who was she? If her hands and mind were not steady, how could she compare?

In the name of the hole in her head, she drinks.

* * *

Ben has been sober for a record-breaking five days. All in preparation for her big conference, of course, hair tied back and suit jacket on as she talks to everyone and no one in her spacious, empty, dead home. Her sweatpants are hiked up to the knees, legs spread in a lazy splay though her upper body is tall, stiff. Professional. Tired.

Isn't it such a shame, to do what you love only to get caught in the legalities and fine print? Ben's never been a people person -- always preferring to stay behind the scenes and do her work in peace. She's always loved the artistry of design, that's where she _ thrives _ , and the fact that she's pigeonholed herself into a business -- one with _ her name _, where she convinces stubborn-minded people that her ideas are better, her designs are quicker, her way is easier -- is a cruel mockery of the dream she thought she was pursuing. The phone call is a blessing, an interruption of the monotony. Even as her stomach drops to the floor at the caller ID, she's flooded with relief as she makes awkward eye contact with her client. 

"Benny?" she hears once she's paused the call and her mic is off, and the childhood nickname hits her like a punch. _ New Kid, Haystack, Tits… Benny _. A name said with care from a smiling, freckled face. A name choked out past braces with great effort, contorted through buck teeth, mangled through a stutter. A name smiled out, never hurled, always kind.

"I--," she starts weakly, her mouth audibly clicking shut as she fumbles for something to say. She pulls her hair from her ponytail, running a hand through it, mumbling out a laugh. "Been a while since I heard that one."

"I thought it'd be nice to hear," the voice on the other end says, a happy smile melting into his words. She thinks, unbidden, of Mike, a long-forgotten memory blooming like a bruise. It couldn't be anyone else. No one else from Derry--

Names pop into her head like balloons -- Bill, brave, stuttering -- Richie, always smiling, always cracking jokes and pulling Voices -- Eddie, high and squeaky, tougher than herself -- Stan, deadpan and quiet -- voices that, though familiar and feeling of home, could never have become what she hears through the phone speaker now. The smooth, easy cadence, always followed by an easy, beautiful grin, is Mike and Mike alone.

She hears him begin to speak again, but is struck by a sudden dissonance in her mind. They're seven, because seven is _ lucky _, it's why her floorplans' windows are always divisible by seven, the doors, too -- so why is she missing someone…?

And then she realizes. The missing name cannot be missing if she's always known it. She can't recover the memory of someone she never quite forgot about.

"_ Bev _," she sighs into the receiver, and Mike chuckles across the line.

"She'll be there too, don't worry," he assures her, and she has half a mind to ask _ where? _ before her mind goes dark, things start connecting, and there's a creeping blackness in the back of her mind. There is no definite shape to it, no clear reason as to why it clouds her vision, drenches her in ice, and plucks upon the fear in her heart like the strings of a lyre. It overcomes her so quickly, so _ intensely _, that she nearly drops her phone, somehow managing to put it on speaker and drop it on her desk before it really does topple to the floor. 

"We have to go back?" she asks, like it could possibly be a question. Like there could be any answer but one -- _ the terror is back, _ and _ we promised, _ and _ It'll get to us eventually, won't It _?

"Yeah," Mike says, and he sounds like he's aged years and years. There's no trace of a smile lingering in his voice -- everything shut down and grim. "It's time."

* * *

Ben knows she looks good. She _ does _ . She's no longer the fat kid, the hallway pariah, the loser. She's been on E for the past ten years, she exercises religiously, she eats healthily. She's nothing if not spiteful -- her spite is the only reason she looks as good as she does. It was spite that shrunk her waistline, spite that kept her from chopping her hair off when it was _ not quite long enough _ and made her look like hell, spite that grew her corporation from the dirt to the skyline. Every time she was told she wouldn’t amount to shit, she proved them wrong. 

Still, all of that feels like it turns to dust when she sees her. One look at Beverly and she's thirteen again, counting the syllables of a haiku on her fingertips. She still has that beautiful fiery hair that Ben fell in love with; the bright eyes full of wonder and zest that she felt cut right through her. When they lock eyes, she's back to being beautifully inadequate.

"Is there a password?" Ben jokes, watching Bev in the doorway of The Jade with mirth; she expects the initial confusion, eyes flitting from hair to nose to mouth and raking down her body. But just as she’s come to expect from Beverly, her eyes clear in record time and her gaze sharpens, focusing on Ben's eyes as her mouth drops open in surprise.

"Benny," Bev says on a sigh, and the way she says it, like she's saying it _ just _ for Ben, makes her flush warm all over. She wants to kiss her, to feel how she says her name against her lips, to _ love _ her. The pent up longing hits hard and sudden, and maybe Ben _ could _ consider herself a romantic now, if this is what she always felt.

And then -- and then --

Rogan, wasn't it? Beverly Rogan. Ben can't find a ring, but the implications are clear. Not as though Ben would pursue her anyway, because she's _ Bev _ , bright and glowing and so much _ more _. More than Ben had any right to touch. She could love her -- she thinks she always will -- but it can only be from a distance.

And God, she _ aches _ for it, the same way she did as a child.

"Yeah," she affirms, spreading a hand over herself. "Changed a lot, but, y'know. For the better."

Beverly looks positively bowled over. "God, you look _ great _," she gushes, putting a hand on Ben's shoulder and squeezing it, as if checking the muscle there. "It's so good to see you like this. You look happy."

* * *

Ben wakes up in the townhouse to a scream. It's early, too early to be anything but scared, and she throws off the covers to find Bev's room, finding Richie already there. They lock eyes. Richie nods, before pushing into Bev's room with a concerned coo of "Bevvie? Are you okay?" Ben follows, and then Eddie is there, too, right at her elbow.

Bev is convulsing on the bed. Her eyes are open, wide open, but rolled back so Ben can only see the whites, and somehow, Richie knows what to do because he's pulling her up against himself, talking quietly as he rubs her back and calms her down. Eddie wrings his hands, asking if she's alright from the sidelines, but Ben is struck into stillness. 

Eventually, Bev's eyes flutter open and her mouth cracks into a loud sob, frantically pushing away from Richie's body though his arms are wrapped securely around her.

"_ Stan _ ," she shrieks like she's dying, finally breaking from Richie's hold and stumbling out of bed and unsteadily onto her feet. Eddie reaches out to keep her still. "Stan, we have to see if he's okay, we _ gotta-- _"

"Bev?" comes Bill's sleepy voice from the doorway. Her head swivels toward the noise, still frantic and ready to run, but her face crumples when the figure behind him comes into view. 

"Stan," she sobs again, weak and soft, barreling out of her room to pull the man into a crushing hug.

"Woah, Marsh," Stan mumbles, still sounding half asleep as he presses his mouth to the top of Bev's head. She whimpers at the touch, her tears soaking into his overlarge sleepshirt, and she's weeping nonsense into his chest, crying high and loud to anyone who will listen. Bill steps out for a moment to make a call. Stan gently sinks the two of them to the floor, letting Bev hold onto him like he might disappear at any second. Richie and Eddie are squatting behind her, touching her softly, pulling back her hair and running comforting palms down her arms and back. Ben has yet to move.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she eventually croaks, pulling away from Stan to dab at her eyes with her shirtsleeves. It wrenches something hard within Ben to see her shuddering and so _ scared _, so out of herself.

"It's alright," Stan murmurs back, a hand stroking the back of Bev's head. "I've had a few episodes myself, it happens to the best of us."

Bev's mouth twitches into a half-smile, looking genuinely pleased despite her teary, red-rimmed eyes. She grips Stan's forearms, tracing the insides of his wrists with a thumb, and whispers something in his ear that Ben can't hear. He nods, looking a bit wrecked, and brings Bev close to kiss her cheek.

"You need anything, Bevs?" Eddie asks, awkwardly moving out of his squat to sit on the floor proper. He's still got a hand on her shoulder, and Ben has half a mind to be there, _ with _ her in that bubble of comfort, but clearly she's missed something, because they're acting like they've known each other for those thirty years she was robbed of. And maybe she shouldn't be surprised that she was left out again, always the outsider of the outsiders; always the loner, the leftover, the last missing piece that should have just stayed missing.

"You should probably drink something," Eddie barrels on, still with that _ damn hand _ on Bev's shoulder, blissfully unaware of Ben's emotions that feel like a tidal wave, so intense and _ hurting _ that she's shocked it isn't physical. She can't be there, in that moment. "Crying dehydrates you, and you cried a _ lot _\--"

"I'll get her water," Ben says as she shuffles past the bodies in the doorway. She locks eyes with Bev, still tangled in the bodies of home, and has to look away. She's halfway down the hall, shouldering past Bill's quizzical stare, when Bev sidles up to her, pressing her tiny body into Ben's side. She's still flushed and tear soaked, but she's beautiful, like she's always been. It's an incredible gift to be by her side.

“I get nightmares a lot,” Bev says, apropos of nothing, like it’s conversational. “You remember, when I got caught in the Deadlights?” Ben nods, looking down at Bev with her eyebrows drawn in confusion. She subconsciously wraps an arm around Bev’s shoulders as they make their way down the stairs, concerned she may trip; it doesn’t register until her bare feet hit the cold wooden floors of the Townhouse. Before she can pull away, Bev is tugging on her hand, almost holding it. She keeps talking.

“Thanks for kissing me out of it, by the way,” and Christ, it’s so _ casual _ , even as Ben is choking in the back of her throat, feeling scraped raw. To hear her affection so unceremoniously spoken of, like it’s not-quite-good, not-quite-bad, is somewhat of a revelation, but _ Bev _ saying it brings a strong bout of mortification, so intense it hurts. “Being in it for as long as I was fucked me up pretty bad, you know. I don’t know how much worse it would be if I was in it any longer.”

Bev ducks from under Ben’s arm, scampering into the small kitchenette and flicking on the lights. The overhead fluorescents burn into the backs of Ben’s eyes; she flinches, cowering into the crease of her elbow.

“It was all I could think of,” Ben admits, and cringes at how rough her voice sounds. “That’s what they do in the movies, right? I figured that because I..."

She catches herself before she can say anything incriminating. The confession sits on the back of her tongue like something sour.

“But it was right,” Bev says, finally coming into focus as the dancing lights leave Ben’s vision. She’s not quite pacing, but it seems like it with how frenetic her energy is, marching from the fridge to the coffee maker to the sink to the tiny marble island in the middle of the whole mess. She has two empty mugs with their handles hooked in between her fingers as she futzes with an electric kettle. Ben takes the mugs from her, and secretly thrills at the way her fingers graze her soft skin.

“Tea?” she asks, and Bev nods. Ben breaks away from the bubble to find sugar.

Clearly, she’s not quite far enough.

“It's almost the same, every time," Bev says, her voice clear and musical. "All of you, suffering. In pain." Ben turns around and watches her swallow hard, blinking furiously, knuckles white where she grips the counter. "Dying. Always dying."

"Bev," Ben says on a sigh, but her head is perking back up, fitting the kettle on its stand and flicking it on. The water begins to burble within it, puffing out little huffs of steam.

"I figured I should tell you," Bev says with a sense of finality, and she's still not looking back, still looking away whenever Ben looks at her; like it's always been. "Because -- because I saw you, I always saw _ you _ , in these awful scenes of -- of nothing. I saw Stan, I saw him in a complete picture, you know, in a home. I saw the towels for two and the soap for two and the wedding ring and the _ hurt _, but. But."

Ben puts down the sugar packets she had found, creeping over to Bev's side to slide a hesitant arm around her. Carefully, like she would spook. She goes comically limp as Ben tugs her closer, her cheek resting soft on her breast. It's hard to breathe. She wouldn't ever dare move. 

"You," she breathes, like she can't quite find the right words. Ben brings a hand up to stroke the back of her head. "It was void. Like you were alone. Like you've been alone for a long time." She tilts her chin up, meeting Ben's eyes though her own are watery. "I don't want you to be alone, Benny."

Her eyes slip shut.

"Oh," Ben says, with a bundle of teary Beverly Marsh in her arms, and then she stops thinking. Bev's nails dig into her forearms, pushing into Ben as she rises onto her toes and closer, _ closer _ , up until they're breathing together, faces nearly touching, and it's everything and nothing that Ben has experienced, because everything and nothing can compare to the striking image of Beverly, and _ nothing _ , nothing can compare for the sudden press of lips against her own, warm and gentle and so achingly slow that she has to take a moment to fully float down into her own mind. And she kisses back, _ of course _ she kisses back; it's like an overwhelming itch, this sense of _ must _ and _ right _ and _ love _ that's coming over her like a second skin -- she moves from cradling the back of Bev's head to run a loving thumb over the hill of her cheek, swallows the thrilled sigh she gives her, and nearly cries when Bev strokes up her chest to lay her palm over her thrumming pulse point. It's everything. God, it's everything and nothing else.

There are footprints behind, and she kisses her. The kettle goes off, and she kisses her. She hears voices, and she kisses her. The whole world could crumble apart around her and she wouldn’t raise her head. She doesn't know if she could -- _ would -- _ ever stop, huffing quick from her nose whenever she quickly darts away to breathe, meeting again like they're magnetized. Bev mumbles heart-wrenching little _ Benny _ 's against the slope of her mouth whenever she takes a breath; it's like heaven to hear her say it, that she wants it as much as Ben does, and it sounds like it _ hurts _, like a love ripped from so deeply within her to finally now show at the surface. Like she's been wounded, like she's bleeding, like her heart is a rent mess in the cavity of her ribs. Ben has been carrying her own bleeding heart in one hand for too long to ever notice it never stopped dripping.

Kissing Beverly is like a balm, one that cools the flaming mess that’s become of her heart. It’s a much-needed stitch, finally pulling her back together.

_ “Fuck yeah!” _Richie hollers, loud enough to forcibly pull Ben from her lovestruck daze. She opens her eyes, catches Bev’s, and is thrown for another loop; she looks so serene, lips pink and beautifully kissed, a deep flush all over her happy, softly-smiling face. Her hair is mussed from Ben’s wandering hands. Bev lets out a content little sigh, and flips off Richie from where her arms are wrapped around Ben’s waist.

And all at once, she feels content.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if youd like! i love getting them


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